Maralinga Part 43

The eradication of the natives proved swift and efficient. The last of the surviving Aboriginal population was eventually rounded up and transported to the islands of Ba.s.s Strait, where they continued to die in the process of being Christianised and civilised.

The Aborigine of Van Diemen's Land was not the only species to be brutally annihilated. While eliminating human compet.i.tion on land, the invaders embarked upon a bloodbath at sea. The indiscriminate slaughter of seals and southern right whales soon put an end to the local sealing industry and, not long afterwards, to sh.o.r.e-based whaling. Undeterred, however, the merchants simply built bigger and stronger ocean-going vessels fit to meet the demands of pelagic whaling, and turned their attention to the highly productive sperm whaling grounds farther afield. In the interests of profit, all was fair game. Besides, the fine timbers of the island had made logging highly profitable and had introduced a burgeoning s.h.i.+p-building industry. There were limitless opportunities on offer in Van Diemen's Land for those who knew how to avail themselves of its riches.

The plunder of land and sea had reaped rewards for many who were perhaps undeserving, but as free settlers started to arrive in numbers, wealth became the result of hard work and ingenuity. Among such men were those determined to lead the way in moral enlightenment. Philanthropy abounded. Rich benefactors built churches and funded schools, not only for their sons, but also for the poor. Wors.h.i.+p and education was to replace licentiousness and ignorance. An influential lobby group of respectable colonists and clergy formed the Anti-Transportation League in a bid to call a halt to the convict system. Appeals were made directly to the British Government and to Queen Victoria herself. No longer should the island serve as a penal settlement and dumping ground for the dregs of humanity, they argued. Van Diemen's Land must become a free and civilised society modelled along the lines of Britain, with a cla.s.s structure ruled by the powerful elite.

There was no man more dedicated to the cause of freedom and reformation than the successful wool grower and merchant, Silas Stanford. But Silas differed from many of his fellow benefactors in the way that he sought neither self-aggrandis.e.m.e.nt nor power. He considered it his bounden duty to care for those less fortunate. And of even greater importance, he considered it his mission to help lead the way out of a brutal past into a bright new future. He needed no reward for his efforts, at least not in this world.

Silas cut an impressive but austere figure as he marched solemnly down Collins Street in his signal black frock coat and top hat, his greying beard as neat in its trim as his well-tailored suit. He might have been leading a funeral procession, or so his youngest daughter was wont to tell him.

'Why must you always wear black, Father?' she would tease. 'Why not a pair of check trousers, or perhaps a grey waistcoat? Both are fas.h.i.+onable, and black is so very funereal.'

'Black is dignified and respectful, Amy,' he would reply. 'One must avoid any show of ostentation, particularly when one is calling upon those less fortunate than one's self.'

But Amy never let him have the last word. She knew only too well that her father favoured his sombre form of dress through pure personal preference. 'The poor rather like a little colour,' she said good-humouredly. 'I always wear a bright scarf or carry a silk kerchief myself. Such items are greatly admired. So much so I must admit that I often find myself giving them away.'

'You are of age, my dear, and it is your prerogative to dress as you wish within the bounds of respectability of course ...' Silas knew that he sounded stuffy. He couldn't help himself, it was his nature, but the twinkle in his eyes betrayed him as he added, '... just as it is my prerogative to dress in funereal fas.h.i.+on.'

'So it is, and so you must.' Amy laughed and kissed his cheek. It didn't stop her playful nagging, however, just as it didn't stop his enjoyment of the game, for Silas adored the youngest of his three daughters.

Nineteen-year-old Amy had always been her father's favourite, even as a child, although Silas would never have admitted the fact to a living soul. And now that his older daughters, Harriet and Isabel, had left home, Amy was more precious to him than ever. He dreaded the day when she too would fly the nest, abandoning him to a solitary widower's existence. But he was resigned to the inevitability of such a fate. Unlike a number of his contemporaries who had lost their wives, he was not one to keep a daughter standing by as a servant to nurse him into old age. Besides, Amy did not want for suitors; it would be only a matter of time before one would claim her heart. She was not as striking as her sisters it was true, but she was pleasing in appearance, and her feisty streak of independence, which aroused in Silas a strange combination of pride and concern, was found attractive by many. Then of course there was the prospect of her substantial inheritance. In a place such as Hobart Town where scoundrels and opportunists abounded, a young woman like Amy Stanford, with or without physical attributes, was considered a worthy prize. Silas trusted implicitly in his daughter's strength of character and sound commonsense, but he was nonetheless on the constant look-out for any who might seek to take advantage.

Upon reaching the intersection of Campbell Street, Silas halted and looked down towards Macquarie Street and the hustle and bustle of the harbour, where the cries of the hawkers could clearly be heard ringing out from Fishermen's Dock. On any given day, there were vessels of all descriptions sitting at the docks, or resting at anchor, or working the harbour waters: whalers and merchant s.h.i.+ps, fis.h.i.+ng boats and barges. They might be the powerful ocean-going barques and ketches and clippers and schooners, all with masts towering above the highest of the nearby stone warehouses, or they might be the smaller boats and ferries that plied the river trade. Hobart Town revolved around the hub of its harbour, and the dockside was under constant development to increase its capacity. The newly created Const.i.tution Dock was completed only three years previously.

Silas continued to gaze down at the harbour, oblivious to the traps and the drays and the pedestrians pa.s.sing by as he watched the road gang of convict labourers. Work never ceased on the foresh.o.r.e, and the next stage of dockland reclamation was well under way. The men toiled in silence like mindless beasts, paying no heed whatsoever to the brutal barks of their overseers. They were plainly accustomed to being cursed like dogs. Silas, as always, found the sight and the sound offensive. Little wonder, he thought, that spirits have been broken and souls lost here, for European settlement has brought to this paradise everything that is base in mankind.

Well, all that is about to change, he told himself with a surge of satisfaction. Oh yes indeed. Changes were most definitely afoot in Van Diemen's Land, and not a moment too soon!

He crossed the road and walked on down Lower Collins Street and, by the time he reached the junction of Sun Street, he found that he was holding his breath. He always avoided inhaling deeply when he visited the suburb of Wapping, but today, in the heat of early December and with a strong southerly breeze, the stench from the Hobart Town Rivulet was particularly disgusting. More so than ever to Silas, because he had recently returned from his property in the southern midlands, where the air was pure and the river waters pristine.

He turned left into the narrow lane where Polly Jordan lived and, unable to hold his breath any longer, reluctantly exhaled to breathe in the stench of rotting animal parts and sewage and all the other forms of putrid matter that was washed down the rivulet from the abattoirs and households and mills upstream, only to end in Wapping.

The surface of the narrow laneway, which for much of the year was a soggy, muddy mess, particularly when the rivulet flooded as it often did, had dried in the summer sun, and several scruffy little girls were playing hopscotch in the dust. Silas scowled. They should have been at school. Women leant against the doorways of conjoined tin shanties and squalid wooden huts, gossiping and enjoying the pleasant weather, seemingly mindless of the fearful stench. In deference to their feelings, Silas resisted the urge to hold a kerchief to his nose. Instead, he tipped the brim of his hat as he pa.s.sed by. They waved. 'Allo Mr Stanford,' one of them called. The women of Wapping knew Silas Stanford, just as Silas Stanford knew them.

To Silas, Wapping epitomised the shameful dichotomy that was Hobart Town. Here, where the rivulet wound its way into the Derwent, the muddy streets and the network of poverty-ridden back alleys and lanes were little more than a cesspit, while barely a half a mile to the west were the grand homes of the prosperous and powerful. Silas, in his mission to help redress the balance in whatever way he could, was today making one of his many routine house calls on behalf of the Hobart Town Businessmen's Philanthropic Society. A whaler by the name of Albert Jordan had died accidentally six weeks before and had been buried at sea. The society was providing his pregnant widow with a monthly rental allowance and weekly supplies of fresh rations for her children.

Polly Jordan's poky tin shack was at the far end of the lane, and its front door opened directly onto the street, where two boys were squatting in the dirt playing marbles. Upon his approach, Silas recognised the older boy.

'Charlie Jordan,' he said sternly, 'you should be in school.'

'Oh. Hullo, Mr Stanford.' Nine-year-old Charlie scrambled respectfully to his feet. His mother's instructions had been well drummed into him for the past month.

'I want you nice and proper, whenever anyone comes from the society, Charlie,' Polly had ordered, 'your best behaviour, mind. They're good people that lot and they deserve our respect.' Her son had correctly read the warning to mean: We need that lot, Charlie. Don't go messing things up.

It had been Silas himself who had founded the Hobart Businessmen's Philanthropic Society five years previously, but most people had lost sight of the fact. Bigger names than his had attached themselves to the cause, many for the purposes of self-promotion, which did not in the least bother Silas. So long as they offered money along with their names, he was perfectly happy for them to reap whatever benefit they wished.

Respectful though Charlie's manner was, the boy didn't appear too dismayed at being caught playing truant.

'I haven't been able to go to school, Mr Stanford. I've had the grippe something awful this past week.' He gave a pathetic cough to emphasise the fact, then before any further discussion could take place he charged for the open front door. 'I'll tell Ma you're here,' he called as he disappeared, and the shriek of 'Ma! Mr Stanford's here!' echoed back out into the lane.

Silas looked down at the urchin still squatting in the dust. 'You should be in school too,' he said.

The urchin grinned back with a cheeky arrogance. His dad was a fish-hawker and his mum was a washerwoman: they didn't need handouts from the HBPS do-gooders.

'Hullo, Mr Stanford.' Polly Jordan was at the front door in an instant. 'How nice to see you; do come in.' She smiled a welcome that was meant to be winsome, but her once-pretty face was weathered well beyond her twenty-nine years, and two missing front teeth did nothing to help, although they gave her a girlish lisp, which was strangely coquettish.

'Good afternoon, Mrs Jordan. Thank you.'

She stood to one side and he edged his way past, trying not to make contact, but she was so hugely with child it was difficult to avoid her altogether as he clutched his top hat to his chest. She seemed to have grown to twice the size in the month since he'd last seen her. He wished she would take more pains to cover her condition; the cotton dress, which was designed to hang loosely, clung to her distended belly in a most distracting fas.h.i.+on. He wondered whether he might suggest Amy bring a smock with her when she next visited the household, although perhaps that would be insensitive.

'Sit down, Mr Stanford, do.' Polly indicated the mothy armchair, which had clearly been her husband's and which dominated the tiny room, then she plonked herself heavily onto the small hardback chair that sat beside the rickety table where upturned packing cases formed the remainder of the family's seating arrangements. A little girl of around four was perched on one, solemnly watching the proceedings, and an eighteen-month-old infant lay sleeping in a cradle, also a.s.sembled from the wood of packing cases. There was no sign of Charlie, who'd ducked out the back door into the rear of the neighbouring house, and was currently making his way through to the front lane to resume his game of marbles.

'Go outside and play, Sal,' Polly said. 'Mr Stanford and me want to have a chat.' The child stood. 'And shut the door after you, there's a love.'

The little girl crossed the room silently, her eyes never leaving Silas. She peered back at him as she closed the door. When she'd gone, Polly, in an automatic gesture reached out a hand and rocked the cradle.

'Do sit, Mr Stanford, please do,' she insisted.

But Silas remained hesitant. 'Perhaps under the circ.u.mstances you might be more comfortable ...?' He indicated the armchair.

Polly gave a guffaw of laughter as if he'd made a fine joke. 'Oh Lord no, Mr Stanford. G.o.d bless you, I'd never get up, not with this barrel of lard.' She embraced her giant belly with both hands in a gesture Silas found extraordinarily vulgar, then returned to rocking the cradle.

'Very well.' He sat. As Polly Jordan was not in the least concerned by her appearance, he ignored his own self-consciousness and spoke with a greater severity than he normally would to a woman in her delicate condition. 'I am most displeased to see that Charlie is not at school,' he said, resting his top hat on his knees.

'Yes, poor boy, he's had the grippe something awful.'

'I have checked the attendance records, Mrs Jordan.' Silas periodically ran a check on the school attendance of those youngsters whose families were receiving benefits from the society. After all, if the society was paying rent and supplying fresh rations, there was no justification for young children to be put out to work when they should be receiving an education. 'I believe Charlie has not been to school for the whole of this week '

'Miss Amy made exactly the same comment late yesterday afternoon when she dropped by with the delivery man, Mr Stanford.' Polly dived in before the lecture could begin. 'And I made exactly the same reply to her as I now make to you. Charlie will be back at school first thing Monday morning, I promise. Today being Friday, I thought I'd start with a fresh week give him time to get over his cough and all.'

Polly wondered briefly whether young Amy Stanford might have snitched to her father about Charlie. The girl was Charlie's teacher after all, and had queried his absence. But no, she decided, Miss Amy was no t.i.ttle-tattle. Besides, Silas Stanford was as cunning as a rat he didn't need his daughter to sniff out school absenteeism. It's just my luck, isn't it, she cursed, that the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d should choose this week of all weeks to run a check on the records.

Polly Jordan refused to think ill of Amy. She liked Amy Stanford. All the women of Wapping did. That one really cares, they said. Not like the other wowsers and do-gooders and toffs. That one has a heart.

Amy taught at the makes.h.i.+ft charity school the society had established in a nearby warehouse to provide education for the poor. She was a favourite with the children, just as she was a favourite with their mothers when she arrived with the drayman who delivered fresh produce and supplies on behalf of the society. Taking part in the deliveries had been Amy's own idea. 'It will be the perfect way to make contact with the people of Wapping, Father,' she'd said when Silas had voiced his misgivings. 'I'll get to know the families of my pupils, I'll gain the trust of their parents.' She'd been most insistent. She'd also been right.

'My goodness, Mr Stanford, she's a breath of fresh air, your daughter, and that's a fact. It's always such a treat to see her. And just look what she give me.' Polly picked up a silk scarf that sat folded on the table and shaking it free she displayed it with pride. 'Look at that for colour, now. You'd never use it, mind, would you? Silk like that's just for show.'

The scarf was bright pink. Silas recognised it.

'I admired the colour was all I did,' Polly continued, 'and then suddenly there she is giving it me. Oh, she's a generous girl, your daughter. I'm keeping it for best, mind.' She stroked the scarf, then re-folded it with care and placed it reverently back on the table. 'Only special occasions for silk like this.' Special occasions, my a.r.s.e, she thought. She'd sell the piece at the first opportunity, but it didn't prevent her appreciating the gift. She enjoyed the touch and the brief owners.h.i.+p of such a pretty thing, but she would enjoy the money it would fetch even more. Miss Amy was a saint, she was.

'I can't offer you a cup of tea I'm afraid, Mr Stanford, I'm fresh out at the moment.' It was a lie, but Polly knew tea was the only offer the man would accept, and she had no wish to encourage conversation. She was feeling a little nervy, to tell the truth. Silas Stanford couldn't possibly know that Charlie had worked several days' at Bob Bates's smithy shop around the corner when Bob's own boy had been taken sick. But if she were to be asked questions outright, and then if it were to be later discovered that she'd lied, she might risk losing her widow's monthly rental allowance.

She heaved herself up from her chair. 'I did make some lovely lemonade last night though, with the sugar that come yesterday and some of those nice fat lemons that was with the fruit Miss Amy brought '

'No thank you, Mrs Jordan.' Silas hastily rose. 'I can't stay long, I'm afraid. I have other calls to make.' Under no circ.u.mstances did Silas drink Wapping water unless it was in the form of tea, and even then he always made sure it was scalding hot and that he could actually see the steam rising from the kettle. Wapping's water supply came from the Hobart Town Rivulet, and G.o.d only knew what sort of disease he might invite should he accept Polly Jordan's lemonade.

Silas was wise to practise caution. Upstream, where the rivulet ran cleanly down from the mountain, people imbibed its waters with impunity, but here in Wapping, disease had been known to reach epidemic proportions. Deaths from dysentery, cholera and even typhus were not uncommon.

He reached a hand into the inner breast pocket of his frock coat and took out a small cloth purse, which he placed on the table.

'There we are, Mrs Jordan: on behalf of the society, your monthly widow's rental allowance at two s.h.i.+llings per week. Eight s.h.i.+llings in all.'

'Oh Mr Stanford ...' Polly's lisp intensified as she gushed unnecessarily. 'It's so good of you, it truly is. I don't know how to thank '

'There is just one way you can thank the society, Mrs Jordan,' Silas interrupted, 'and that is to keep your children in school for as long as is humanly possible.' Which will mean only until they were twelve, he thought. After that, they'd head off for the hopand apple-picking seasons, which was the way so many of the poor subsisted. But at least, by then, they would have received the elementary education that would serve them throughout life. 'I cannot stress enough the importance of learning to read and write. Nor can I stress enough the importance of acquiring basic arithmetical skills. It is imperative we safeguard the future of our children, Mrs Jordan, for they are the future of this colony.'

'Oh indeed, Mr Stanford, indeed! My Charlie'll be back at school on Monday, I swear. Why, little Will's there right now, learning his sums. He's clever that boy. I'm dead proud of him, I am.'

With four children and another on the way, Polly Jordan couldn't wait for every one of them to be twelve years old and out picking fruit and hops. She loved each child with a pa.s.sion, she always had. She'd loved the two she'd lost as well. But she was tired. It was time someone looked after her for a change. Dear Mother of G.o.d, she'd earned the right, hadn't she?

The interview over, Polly waddled thankfully the several steps to the door, Silas accompanying her.

'I'm delighted to hear that Will is doing so well,' he said.

Outside in the lane, as the front door opened, Charlie nudged his mate, and they gathered up their marbles and scuttled out of sight. Best to avoid a lecture, they thought.

'I shall see you again in one month,' Silas said, putting on his top hat.

'That you will, Mr Stanford, and without this, eh?'

She flashed her toothless grin and clutched her giant belly, and Silas felt himself flush with embarra.s.sment. But to his credit, he did not look away.

'I wish you luck with your confinement, Mrs Jordan. May G.o.d watch over you and see you safely through your ordeal.'

'Thank you, Mr Stanford.' Polly wasn't sure why, in that instant, she felt a desire to communicate with this stern man. Perhaps she was making a personal plea, fearing that the society would no longer support her once the baby was born, or perhaps she felt genuine sympathy for Silas Stanford because of what she'd learnt from his daughter.

'It's hard bringing up youngsters on your own, isn't it, sir?'

'Yes, I'm sure it is.' The question was no doubt rhetorical, but she was looking at him as if they shared a secret, and Silas felt uncomfortable.

'Just as it's hard losing your loved one to the sea. You'd know that too, wouldn't you, sir?'

There was no misunderstanding her now. The starkness of her words and the meaningful look in her eyes clearly stated that they had a common tragedy.

Silas was rendered momentarily speechless. This is my daughter's doing, he thought. It had to be. How else could Polly Jordan know of their personal family history? He was bewildered. Why would Amy share such an intimacy? It was tantamount to betrayal. Why would she do such a thing?

'I appreciate the difficulty of your circ.u.mstances, Mrs Jordan,' he said stiffly, 'and I give you my personal a.s.surance that the society will continue to supply your widow's allowance until you are able to return to work. In the meantime, I wish you good day.'

He tipped the brim of his hat, and walked off down the stinking lane without looking back.

Polly watched him for a moment or so. A hard man, she thought, a hard man with no heart. How a b.a.s.t.a.r.d like that had managed to sire the likes of Amy Stanford was beyond her. She left the front door open to let in a little breeze, and went back inside. Baby Jake was crying.

Ah well, she thought as she sat and lifted the child from its cradle, at least I'll have another month or so before the society cuts me adrift. She jiggled the infant on her knees and baby Jake stopped crying immediately, reaching out to play with her hair. What the h.e.l.l; she'd scored well with her widow's allowance. She was thankful for that, particularly as it was quite possible she wasn't a widow at all. She put the child on the floor and smiled as he crawled, then stood, then staggered about the room like a tiny drunken sailor.

Polly wasn't at all sure that her husband had died at sea. In her opinion, Albert Jordan was too canny to cop it in an accident. He'd more than likely run off because she'd got pregnant again. 'You keep popping them out like this, Poll, how am I expected to feed them?' he'd say. Mostly in a good-natured fas.h.i.+on, she had to admit he was fond of his children. But she'd sensed the prospect of this next one might have pushed him too far, particularly so soon after the last. Well, it was hardly her fault the babies kept coming, was it? He had to keep poking her, didn't he? The b.a.s.t.a.r.d never stopped. What did he expect? G.o.d, but she missed him. She missed him and hated him at the same time.

Polly Jordan's overwhelming grief at the news of her husband's death had been quickly replaced by anger. Whether or not he'd died accidentally, as his crew mates aboard the whaler had reported, was immaterial. A careless death, or a callous abandonment, either way she'd been left pregnant with the prospect of bringing up five children on her own. The only mitigating factor in Albert Jordan's favour, should he have abandoned her, was that he had rigged his own death in order for her to receive a.s.sistance. For that, Polly was grateful.

She stood and, hefting baby Jake onto one hip, grabbed the bag of fresh fruit that had arrived yesterday. She'd pop next door and share it with Meg Henderson who had six youngsters and a drunken husband who beat her. There's always someone worse off than yourself, Polly thought.

Silas walked down Campbell Street towards the harbour. He would look at the s.h.i.+ps, he decided, while the wind off the water cleared his head of the foul rivulet odour.

As he pa.s.sed the City of London Arms, two men staggered drunkenly out onto the street and a brawl ensued, others joining them, mugs of rum and ale in hand, to urge them on. It is early afternoon, Silas thought vaguely. Why were men drinking in the early afternoon? But then why men chose to lose their senses in drink at all remained a mystery to Silas. He ignored them and walked on.

Upon reaching the harbour, he looked across to Old Wharf. Beyond the impressive stone facades of warehouses and businesses lay the further network of Wapping's lanes and alleys and rows that were bordered to the east by the rivulet's outlet. Housing princ.i.p.ally fishermen and labourers, here too life was hard and uncompromising, and here too were the pubs and brothels where drunkenness and lasciviousness were a daily ritual.

Although he believed in the aims of the temperance movement and the banning of spirituous liquor, Silas, unlike many others, did not stand in judgement of men and their drunkenness. Nor, surprisingly, did he stand in judgement of women who sold their bodies. Most of the poor wretches had come from a convict past: they had endured the unspeakable. What right had any man to judge those whose spirits had been broken? The lunatic asylums, of which there were a number in Van Diemen's Land, were overflowing with pitiable creatures who had been pushed to the brink of madness and beyond. Silas did indeed pray for their souls, but it was his aim to offer help of a more practical nature, help that would lead the colony into a future where such torment had no place.

He slowed his walk to a dawdle and, ignoring the raucous cries of the fish hawkers, looked out at the mighty s.h.i.+ps resting on the water. He was so deep in thought, though, that the beauty of the s.h.i.+ps was lost on him. His mind turned to the previous day's meeting of the Legislative Council when delegates had arrived from Launceston for final discussions on the drafting of the new const.i.tution. It had been a meeting of great significance, and the principle reason he had returned from his property near Pontville. Since Westminster Parliament had pa.s.sed the Australian Const.i.tutions Act of 1850, granting the right of legislative power to all six colonies, Van Diemen's Land had grown closer with each successive year to becoming a self-governing colony of the British Empire. It will not be long now, Silas thought as he stared blankly at the harbour. These were momentous times. Momentous times indeed ...

He lifted his gaze out to sea and was distracted by a particularly fine-looking s.h.i.+p in the distance. Under full sail and with the wind behind her, the clipper was making her way up the Derwent in spectacular fas.h.i.+on. He halted to admire the vessel and, as he did so, he realised that his mind hadn't really been on the meeting of the Legislative Council at all. It hadn't even been on the new const.i.tution and the prospect of self-government. He'd been trying to distract himself, he realised. He'd been trying to distract himself from the moment he'd left Polly Jordan's house.

'It's hard bringing up youngsters on your own, isn't it, sir?' He couldn't get her words out of his mind. 'Just as it's hard losing your loved one to the sea. You'd know that too, wouldn't you, sir?' Yes, he thought, oh yes, indeed I would. Why, he wondered, had Amy chosen to confide in Polly Jordan of all people? He had no idea what could have possessed his daughter to do such a thing, but whatever the reason, it had brought back the past.

Other t.i.tles by Judy Nunn.

Araluen.

On a blistering hot day in 1850, brothers George and Richard Ross take their first steps on Australian soil after three long months at sea. All they have is each other.

A decade on, and they are the owners of successful vineyard, Araluen, nestled in a beautiful valley near Adelaide. Now a successful businessman, George has laid down the roots of a Ross dynasty, born of the New World. But building a family empire whatever the cost can have a shattering effect on the generations to come ...

Pacific.

Australian actress Samantha Lindsay is thrilled when she scores her first Hollywood movie role, playing a character loosely based on World War II heroine Mamma Tack.

But on location in Vanuatu, uncanny parallels between history and fiction emerge and Sam begins a quest for the truth. Just who was the real Mamma Tack?

Kal.

Kalgoorlie. It grew out of the red dust of the desert over the world's richest vein of gold ... From the heady early days of the gold rush, to the horrors of the First World War in Gallipoli and France, to the shame and confrontation of the post-war riots, Kal tells the story of Australia itself and the people who forged a nation out of a harsh and unforgiving land.

Random House.

By the same author.

The Glitter Game Centre Stage Araluen Kal Territory Beneath the Southern Cross Pacific Heritage Floodtide Tiger Men Children's fiction Eye in the Storm Eye in the City